


Dysthymia

by Niullum



Series: Short Fics! [9]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Flash Fic, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Tim Drake Has Mental Health Issues, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, no beta we die like robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29369220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niullum/pseuds/Niullum
Summary: There is something so distinct about depression that even with all the warning signs in front of his face, Tim couldn’t realize he was going through another episode until he was fully sinking into that feeling of despair.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: Short Fics! [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931164
Comments: 9
Kudos: 140





	Dysthymia

**Author's Note:**

> these are the type of the stories I write when I’m really fucking sad xD

There is something so distinct about depression that even with all the warning signs in front of his face, Tim couldn’t realize he was going through another episode until he was fully sinking into that feeling of despair.

At least that was how Tim woke up. The moment he opened his eyes Tim _knew_ it was going to be one of _those_ days. Days were all he could feel was that he had no energy left. Days were the never-ending sadness would follow him everywhere till the point were breathing would become hard.

A thing that was supposed to be so effortless, so easy as letting air into his lungs felt taxing now. Ridiculously hard. But it wasn't that what caught his attention when he woke up. No, it was the pit of sadness right below his stomach.

And his thoughts….were loud. Louder than the usual and he _couldn’t make them shut up_. The thought of getting out of bed was difficult, almost close to the word impossible. His body felt too heavy. His mind was too saturated.

His eyes settled over his phone resting on his nightstand, and he hesitated for a brief second. His left hand reached for it, to check if he had gotten any messages, but Tim stopped midway when his tired brain finally computed what had happened yesterday.

_He hadn’t shown up to the meeting._

His hand dropped. Tim didn’t even register the cell phone falling to the floor as the panic set in. Crap. Crap. Crap. It was important. He cursed under his breath. A drug-ring takedown. Perhaps if he called explaining what happened they would...they would…probably _understand and_ -

 _Why would they care in the first place?_ The thought echoed through his mind and Tim held his breath, his heart beating way too fast for his likings. _It wasn’t true,_ he thought desperately. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Alfred cared. They weren’t the most vocal sure, but they care, they _had_ to care, someone must care-

_Bruce surely didn’t care. He had far more important things to do than to take care of an emancipated minor._

_The disposable one._

_The **replacement**._

The thought gathered force and Tim shut his eyes tight, hoping that maybe if he closed them tight enough it would manage to erase those thoughts. It didn’t. While the more rational side of him kept telling him that his family would obviously care _.._ another part of him kept muttering that _they must hate him, they must despise him because he’d failed. He’d failed to complete even the most basic task show up to a meeting and probably one person was dead for this and...and_ -

Tim was just _tired._ He was so tired of fighting against the currents of this invisible illness, of staying strong when every time it only _got worse._ The worst part is that he had never _asked_ to be in a constant battle against himself.

_He never wanted, he never asked for-_

“Keep it together,” he muttered, clenching his fist and wiping whatever tears escaped. “Just call them and that’s it.”

In the end, Tim never called. He stared at the ceiling, so concentrated on his own thoughts he didn’t hear his phone ringing in the background.

* * *

The truth is that Tim couldn’t remember at what age he was first diagnosed. If he had to take a guess it would probably be when he was young, probably between 14-16 years-old after Jack had enough and sent him to a doctor.

Little did he know that would be the start of more therapist appointments. According to DSM-5 his depression had a fancy name. Persistent Depressive Disorder also known as _dysthymia_ , his longtime childhood friend. It was always there... _lurking_ , other times greeting him and reminding it was _there_...except this time it was going on full force.

At this point, Tim didn’t know what to do. It was maddening having to fake functionality when his chemical impaired brain struggled to complete even the most basic task. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. B _ut then… When was life ever fair to begin with?_

Just thinking about the emotional fatigue of being submitted into therapy, _again_ , made him want to scream. _Keep it together,_ he repeated to himself, curling more in the covers. He had to keep it together.

If not for him for Bruce, for Dick, for Jason, or even Damian-

He was so trapped in his own thoughts he didn’t feel the end of the bed dip with an unfamiliar weight. _A stranger_ , his mind classified it but the reality was that Tim was too worn out to even put up a fight.

When two arms reached under the covers for him, Tim shut his eyes and-

“Tim,” said a familiar voice, slowly untangling him from the covers. Tim opened his eyes. The sight of his adoptive father’s face looked back at him. 

“Bruce..?”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth quirked up into a sad smile.

“Hey chum,” he said softly, carding his fingers through Tim’s hair. “Rough day?”

“Rough week,” Tim muttered. They didn’t speak for a while; both of them enjoying the relative silence.

“We got worried something had happened,” Bruce said, after a while. ‘ _You stopped responding to our messages’_ went unsaid and the implication behind it made Tim take a deep and pained breath. His pulsed quickened too as the anxiety slowly began to overtook him because _he had worried them, he’d worried them so much they thought he was **dead** because death was a better alternative than to keep living like this and Tim was tired, so tired of-_

“Tim.”

Tim blinked and raised his head up, barely feeling how Bruce’s hands were holding him. He let out a shuddering breath and maintained eye contact with his father, even if it pained him to do so.

“It’s Saturday 13th, 5:46 p.m. You’re in your apartment in Gotham…” Bruce continued in a soothing voice that grounded him back in reality. “You okay?”

He nodded.

“Tim, talk to me please.”

He swallowed the tight lump in his throat in the hopes it wouldn’t make him feel so guilty and whispered, “I think I’m going under.”

Bruce’s hands tightened.

“Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” was the reply. It was soft. Too soft to be Bruce, and if Tim was dreaming, he didn’t want to wake up. “ _Sweetheart, I'm sorry_.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
